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dp /^/rierieapo. 


A STORY OF THE MISSION DAYS 
OF CALIFORNIA. 


ElizaDetn Baker BoHaq. 













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UN AMERICANO. 


A STORY OF THE MISSION DAYS OF 
CALIFORNIA 


BY 



ELIZABETH BAKER BOHAN. 


n 


ETHICAL SERIES 
No. I. 

Copyrighted by the Author. 


EOS ANGEEES, CAE. 

LOS ANGELES PRINTING CO. 
no South Broadway. 

1895- 






% 





Yucca, or Spanish Bayonet, 










UN AMERICANO. 


CHAPTER I. 

HE sun was throwing golden javelins 
of light through every crevice of the 
heavily-laden vines, but the young 
man who was so busily piling up 
delicious grapes in the quaint baskets 
that had come from the Indian vil- 
lage of Roboba, cared not for the sun. 
It might set, or it might rise, it was 
all one to him. There was but one way in 
which Juan Murietta measured time, and that 
was by the sun in Marianita Alvarado’s eyes. 
When that shone upon him, it was his day. 
When that was gone, it was his night, though 
every object about him was mellowed in a 
golden radiance. From time to time, he put 
the vines aside impatiently, and peered down 
the long, green aisles- of the vineyard, then 
frowned and fanned his dusky face with his 
sombrero. 

“Here, you Pedro!” he called, testily, 
“come and place these baskets in the wagon, 
and be not so slow. Dost think the day’s 
hours are made for dreaming? ’ ’ 



4 


UN AMERICANO. 


The boy thus called dismissed his revery 
with a sigh, and turning, lifted a great, 
round, tub-like basket upon his shoulder, and 
carried it some distance to the wagon. 

When he returned for another, Murietta’s 
mood had changed. The sunshine had got- 
ten into his face. His great black eyes were 
softened with a glint' of gold, and even his 
mustachios wore a less warlike air. 

“Pedro,” he said gently, “it is getting 
late. Your frijoles will be eaten. I, myself, 
will finish your work. Begone!” 

With muttered thanks the boy turned to 
depart, but not before he had caught a 
glimpse, far down the leafy vista, of a rapidly 
approaching figure in bright garments, and he 
wondered, in a sort of inert and lumpish 
way, how the mere sight of a girl in the dis- 
tance could change both mien and voice of a 
man in a single wave of time’s wing. 

“Marianita, mia!” exclaimed Juan, spring- 
ing forward with a welcome in every motion 
to meet the girl. 

She stopped short, six feet from his out- 
stretched hands, and threw back her head 
coquettishly. 

“Oh, but you will!” he cried, making 
another spring, and, folding her roughly in 
his arms, he kissed her again and again. 


UN AMKRICANO. 


5 


‘^Bear!’’ she cried, her smile belying the 
anger in her tones. “See!” picking up her 
gay rebosa and pointing to the stains of 
grapes upon it, “I wish, Juan, you would 
go to the city of Mexico, and learn to be a 
gentleman. You are too rough. I like 
manners like the Senor has.” 

Juan laughed happily. 

“Marianita, tomorrow I go to San I^uis 
Rey,” he said, significantly, “and I tell the 
Padre. I worked last night by the moon, 
and I finished the porch of our house. The 
big olive tree shades it, so that Marianita can 
be cool all the morning. And the lilies I 
planted two years ago, on the day my eyes 
were first blessed by a sight of you, are in 
great buds. There will be thirty, forty, fifty 
great white lilies for our wedding day.” 

“It is too soon, Juan,” she said, pushing 
back her coal-black hair with a pretty, impuls- 
ive movement. 

“It is the time we set,” he said, folding 
his arms and setting his teeth. “Why do 
you say wait ? ’ ’ 

“The Senor says,” she began, hesitat- 
ingly, and evidently expecting him to inter- 
rupt her, “that the picture will not be done 
for a month.” 

“What else does the Senor say that is so 
important?” he asked, his softness all gone 


6 


UN AMERICANO. 


and his black brows furrowing, as the storm 
gathered. 

“Many things, Juan; but you would only 
be angry if I told you. The Senor never 
gets angry, though he is often sorrowful. 
Don’t go to the Padre tomorrow, Juan, and 
don’t work in the night,’’ she said, gathering 
her mantle closely over her head preparatory 
to leaving. 

“I shall go tomorrow, or I shall go — 
never!’’ he said, defiantly. “Which shall it 
be — you can choose.’’ 

“Juan, mio,’’ she answered, more ten- 
derly, “you frighten me. Make your brows 
smooth, Juan. You know you have my word. 
An Alvarado never breaks the word. But I 
would wait until the picture is done. Oh, 
but it is beautiful! ’’ 

“My wedding is not to be put off at the 
word of a — a puling painter!” exclaimed the 
young man, fiercely. “What do you see in 
him — a thin, light-haired, white-fingered — 
nothing! sitting in a room, painting with 
a little brush — faugh ! ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ He never is rude, and he never gets 
angry,” said the girl, sullenly. 

“He hasn’t blood enough!” cried the 
young man, with emphasis. “I dare say if 
I struck his white face he would not be angry; 
he would shake at the knees — faugh ! ’ ’ 


UN AMKRICANO. 


7 


“Oh, Juan, you are terrible!’' she cried, 
going up to him and laying her head on his 
shoulder. “The poor Senor has done nothing 
but paint a beautiful picture of me. He has 
made me a saint, standing against the old 
mission wall. If you would only come and 
look at it you would be glad. Why you hate 
the Senor, a stranger, one who has been with 
us but a few weeks, I cannot tell. It is 
unjust, Juan.” 

He made no effort to caress her. His arms 
hung down idly, and his gaze .was turned to 
the purple hills that the sunset benediction 
was idealizing, but not to observe their chang- 
ing hues. His irresponsiveness frightened 
her more than anything else. But, as she 
would have said, an Alvarado is proud, and 
she moved away from him, saying bitterly: 

“There is no love where there is no trust, 
and you do not trust me, Juan.” 

In an instant he was almost crushing the 
life out of her in the excess of his passion. 
“Until now I trusted you with my life, my 
soul,” he said, raining his savage kisses upon 
her face, her hair, her hands. “Your love 
made me love God, Marianita. If you take 
away your love, you take away God! You 
make me a demon! If you give your love to 
the Senor, he shall not live! ” 

“Foolish Juan,” said the girl, patting his 


8 


UN AMKRICANO. 


cheek. “The poor Senor does not want my 
love. Said I not he was often sorrowful? I 
think he loves someone who is dead, though 
he has not said it to me. You are unkind, 
my Juan, and frighten me. Tell me you will 
not doubt again, and by Christmas we will be 
in our own home.’’ 

“Oh, my Marianita, my love, it is gone! 
Forgive me! Only be faithful to me and I 
will work for you night and day. I will go 
to Mexico and bring back rich stuffs for your 
clothing. See! My vines have been bounti- 
ful; they have yielded me a great harvest and 
will bring me money. You shall do no work. 
Old Ysidro shall make you a prie-dieu, ail 
carved with lilies, and my Marianita shall 
sing and pray and live among the flowers.” 

The great black eyes were filled with tears, 
which he was too proud to let fall, and the 
girl, touched by the strength of his love, 
spoke caressingly. 

“By Christmas-tide, dear Juan, I will be 
ready. But you must promise great reform. 
When the storm gathers in your eyes and your 
hand is clenched and your words are sharp 
like knives, I am afraid of you. You are like 
el tigre and I am afraid.” 

He turned to her. “No, Marianita, I could 
not be el tigre to you, but to one who would 


UN AMKRICANO. 9 

Steal you from me — Dios! Him I would tear 
to pieces ! ’ ’ 

The girl had been brought up amidst such 
feelings; she had heard such sentiments ever 
since she could remember, and much as she 
would have disliked the carrying out of such 
a threat, she thought it quite natural in a 
lover. She put up her ripe lips for a parting 
salutation and smiled as he held her a 
moment longer, saying appealingly: 

“My Rosa, let the white-faced Americano 
go. He is not of our blood. It is his nation 
that is robbing the people of their land. He 
may be their spy, their agent. Send him 
away from your casa.” 

“Oh, I’m sure he thinks of nothing but 
his sorrows, Juan, and he is so kind. He 
gives money to the poor people who are 
turned out of their homes by the Americanos, 
and I have seen him weep for them. If you 
would only once come and talk with him, you 
would see.’’ 

“Let us not talk of him, then, Marianita; I 
can have no patience! Now, before you go, 
tell me to go to the Padre tomorrow.’’ 

‘ ‘To say that we will be married at Christmas- 
tide, Juan, yes,’’ she answered gaily. “Now, 
don’t work on the house in the moonlight. It 
can easily be finished by Christmas. Adios! ’’ 


CHAPTER II. 


He watched her light form skimming swiftly 
along under the swinging vines until she was 
lost to view. Like many another self-deceived 
man, Juan pitied the girl’s straightforward 
trust and inability to detect deceit; but he was 
a man — he knew better. It was forgivable in 
her, nay, even, perhaps, praiseworthy, but 
suspicion sat upon him better. It gave evi- 
dence of a better understanding of things, he 
said to himself. The Senor had come there 
for his health, he had been told. How Juan 
scoffed at the thought. He had come there to 
rob him of his promised wife. Were not his 
kind robbing the Mexicans of homes and 
bread? His anger grew so that he could 
hardly collect his thoughts sufficiently to fill 
up his wagon and drive it to his father’s 
hacienda. The family were at supper. He 
joined them and ate his meal moodily, spoke 
roughly to the tired maid, and then rushed 
away a quarter of a mile, to the little adobe 
house he had built for his bride. Like most 
Southern California homes, it had a wide porch 
almost all around it, and this was shaded by 
palms, sycamores and olives. Vines were 
already rioting over the trellis, for Juan had 


UN AMERICANO. 


1 1 

studied to make the little place beautiful, and 
it already wore an air of homelikeness. 

He did not work, but sat down and let jeal- 
ousy eat the humanity from his heart. After 
a time his misery became unendurable. He 
would go to the good old padre and tell him 
all — all his fears, and abide by what he said. 
He sprang up and hastily made his way down 
the path. There was relief in action and 
relief in the thought that he had no decision 
to make. Padre Peyri was held in such esti- 
mation by his people that they never thought 
of appealing from his decision. They were 
like babes for the want of self-reliance. They 
had never been taught to be clear, of vision, to 
cultivate discernment, or to be in the least 
logical, and their impulses and the padre ruled 
them by turns. San Luis Rey was but two 
miles from Juan’s home, and but a mile from 
Rancho Alvarado, and he had to pass it if he 
kept the path. His lithe young body swung 
along with the freedom of a mountain lion in 
its native wilds, and it seemed but a few 
moments before the light from Alvarado’s win- 
dows shone out over the tangled flower-beds. 

He stopped. It was not possible for a 
Murietta to pass by the home of his love with- 
out trying to get a glimpse of her sweet face. 
And then this painter; he was not unwilling 
to see what he looked like, providing he could 


12 


UN AMERICANO. 


do SO without disclosing it. He crept, 
panther-like, through the blooming roses, 
’neath the great drooping branches of the 
fuchsia trees, and crushed the sweet violets by 
hundreds with his cruel heel, but he reached 
the window. 

Then for a moment he seemed turned to 
stone. Marianita stood by the fireplace, weep- 
ing. The Senor stood beside her, wringing 
his hands; then, as Juan watched, he took 
Marianita’ s brown hand, carried it to his lips, 
and, gently releasing it, walked blindly, stag- 
geringly from the room. Juan knew nothing 
of the little graces and amenities of social 
intercourse, and his invertebrate trust in his 
betrothed was crushed by the sight. 

One moment he stood, one moment of hor- 
rified surprise, a hundred demons tearing at 
his soul; then, gasping, he sprang back over 
the violet beds, through the clustering roses, 
and gained the highway. No thought of 
Father Peyri now, or of the sacred grove of 
the mission, where he had been wont to wan- 
der, meditating upon his sins before making 
his confession; no thought of anything in 
heaven above or earth beneath, save hatred 
and the desire to punish, to crush, to kill. If 
he had come with the step of a lion, he went 
back with the spring of a tiger. His staring 
eyeballs darting fire, his comely features dis- 


UN AMERICANO. 


13 


torted by feelings Satan might gloat over. 
The full moon flooded the little house and he 
easily found what he went in search of — a 
large, two-edged dirk he had used the night 
before at his work about the tiny kitchen. 
He had put it up high upon one of the shelves, 
and reaching up to get it he pushed off his 
sombrero, and when he stooped to pick this 
up, his rosary fell out of a little inner pocket 
upon his breast. 

Juan had ever been punctilious as to the 
number of his prayers, and carried the rosary 
about him always. No Dyak heathen ever 
more profoundly believed in charms than did 
Juan in the efficacy of his rosary and scapular, 
and now that he meditated a crime, the sight 
of the little string of beads staggered him. 
Each separate bead seemed to cry out at him, 
and as he picked it up he thought it twined 
about his fingers as though to hinder him. 
He flung it upon the shelf with a groan, and 
tried, like Othello, to think the contemplated 
deed a virtuous one. It would not do. The 
flinging away of his rosary meant farewell to 
his religion, but even this did not cool his 
murderous desire — that must be gratified, at 
least. A cold sweat came out upon his fore- 
head and he shuddered as he realized his 
inability to give up his revenge; and he had 
never before approached so near to clearness of 


UN AMERICANO. 


14 

mental vision, as when he saw that the two 
things, revenge and religion, were not akin; 
but he chose the former, nevertheless. 

“Farewell,” he said brokenly, his great, 
sturdy frame shaking with the strength of his 
emotion. “Farewell, padre, madre, iglesia, 
Dios.” Then he rushed out into the moon- 
light and wished that it was dark. He looked 
back as he went, almost expecting some good 
saint to follow him in palpable form to hold 
him back, but the honest moonlight revealed 
unmistakably every bush and tree in its own 
particular shape, and he felt himself, in a 
manner, deserted. 

He fairly flew over the ground and was soon 
again upon the spot of his discomfiture. Juan 
would not enter a house to do murder, but if 
he could find his enemy without, he would 
fight to the death, and he would watch until 
he did find him without. Marianita’s home 
was in a perfect garden of greenery, and he 
had no difficulty in secreting himself. The 
night was warm. There had been refreshing 
rains, and the air was as clear as at mid- 
summer. If he had been softened by the 
rosary, his proximity to his supposed enemy 
drove every human feeling from his heart. He 
waited, wishing and longing with an intensity 
that seemed as though it must bring to pass 
that which he desired. The lights were put 


UN AMERICANO. 


15 


out, one by one, and all was still and dark. 
One hour, two hours, passed by; and then he 
saw a tall, very slender man emerge from the 
door and strike off at a good pace toward San 
Luis Rey. He was exultant. He sprang up 
and followed, silently. He wanted him to get 
some distance from the house, so he made no 
sign, until they were nearly a quarter of a 
a mile away, then he easily overtook the man. 

“Ameiicano, defend yourself!” he cried, 
not deigning to give him the title, Senor, even. 

The man turned and looked upon the infur- 
iated Mexican. 

“I have no quarrel with you, my friend,” 
he said, quite calmly. 

“Robber! Agent of the Americanos! Her- 
etic! Betrayer of women! — ah! defend your- 
self if you have blood enough in you! ” hissed 
Juan, desperately flourishing his dirk. 

“I am not the man you are looking for, for 
those names do not fit me,” answered the 
young American, keeping his eye steadily up- 
on that of his would-be adversary, “never- 
theless, if you want to slay an innocent man 
in cold blood, you can do so. I am ill, 
unarmed, and unable to defend myself, but I 
would like to know why you attack me.” 

‘ ‘ For stealing the love of Marianita Alvarado, 
coward,” cried Juan, white at the enforced 
delay of his revenge. 


1 6 UN AMERICANO. 

He could not help but see the look of un- 
bounded astonishment that spread over the 
Senor’s face as he said this, for the moon 
shone full upon it. 

“The love of Marianita Alvarado? You are 
raving! The woman I love was lost at sea six 
months ago. I told Marianita about it this 
evening and she wept for me. My love was 
the purest and fairest lily that ever bloomed on 
this distracted earth. Strike me now, Juan. 
I know who you are now. I should like 
nothing better than to go to my love.'’ 

A look of sullen belief came upon the Mex- 
ican’s face. The young man’s words carried 
conviction with them, but Juan’s undisciplined 
nature had never recognized the nobleness of 
yielding to conviction, when it proved that he 
had been in the wrong. Seeing his moment- 
ary advantage, the American continued: 

“I have painted her as the guardian angel 
of San Luis Rey, for she has a sweet, honest 
face. The poor old mission will soon be dis- 
mantled, as all the land around is being 
bought from the government. Father Peyri 
is already gone ’’ 

“Gone! The padre gone!” cried Juan, in- 
credulously, dropping his threatening arm. 

“Yes, gone this night to take ship at 
San Diego.” 

Juan cast his dirk upon the ground, and 


UN AMERICANO. 


17 


threw back his head. ‘ ‘The padre gone from 
San lyuis Rey!” he again exclaimed. “Gone 
from his people! Dios! it cannot be! ” 

“But it is true. I told Marianita that also, 
and she wept most bitterly. The poor padre’s 
heart is broken for his people’s woes.” 

Juan stamped upon the ground and gnashed 
his teeth. The padre gone, and they left to 
themselves? Who would baptize their babes, 
and marry them, and bury their dead? And, 
he reflected, it was all because of people like 
this man. He wondered if it were not his 
duty to dispatch him for the crime of being an 
American. Then came the feeling that he 
must see the padre once more, must urge him 
to come back, and failing that, must, through 
him, make his peace with God before it was 
too late, for to Juan, the intervention of the 
priest for this purpose was an absolute neces- 
sity. 

“When does he sail?” he asked, as soon as 
this thought had flashed into his brain. 

“Some time tomorrow morning,” answered 
the Senor. “ He told me this afternoon, for I 
have been trying to keep him here. ’ ’ 

“I will get a horse and ride all night,” said 
Juan, hurriedly. “Senor, if you have lied to 
me,” he added, looking searchingly into the 
young man’s face, “when I return I will have 
your life.” 


i8 


UN AMERICANO. 


A look of contempt came upon the Ameri- 
can’s face. “You know that I have told you 
the truth,’’ he said, returning Juan’s gaze. 
“I am not a Catholic, but I neither lie, nor 
would I follow a fellow man to murder him.’’ 

Juan flinched under the honest look, and to 
save himself from more confusion, he picked 
up his knife and strode away without further 
ceremony. 




CHAPTER III. 


The news that Padre Peyri had left his peo- 
ple was an awful blow to him. He had grown 
up from a lad under the padre’s eye, and a 
thought that there could be a power above and 
beyond that of the good priest had really never 
forced its way into his brain. The padre had 
sold the land they had lived upon to his father. 
His father, in turn, had given to Juan the few 
acres on which he had built the little home he 
was to take his bride to. If the padre had 
gone from San Luis Rey, who was to protect 
them should some Americano come with 
papers to show that he had bought the land 
trom the government? Yes, he must see the 
priest once more, must hear what he had to 
say about it, and must obtain absolution for 
his murderous intention of that night. 

He went to his father’s stables and saddled 
his own mustang. No one was stirring, nor 
did he wish them to know about the departure 
of the priest until he returned from San Diego. 
The horse was fresh and made good time. 
The young man was distracted and relieved 
both. The noble bearing of the American 
had impressed him strongly. A faint shadow 
of the thought that, after all, a perfect recti- 


20 


UN AMERICANO. 


tude of soul was something higher and better 
than plenty of red blood and sinewy strength 
and dash and bravado, hovered about his inner 
consciousness for a brief moment, then he 
drove it away. He would not admit that the 
American had this rectitude of soul, he told 
himself. But — why was he here, a stranger, 
surrounded by enemies and dangers, and sor- 
rowing, as Marianita had said, for the woes of 
those enemies. Juan had never cared for any 
race except his own, for any country except 
his own, or any religion except the one he 
professed. They might all go into everlasting 
nothingness, and he would not care a whit. 
Was this because his soul was small and 
cramped, and was the other’s something so 
much beyond his that he could include the 
whole world in his love and all the nations in 
it? Away with the thought. The old 
thoughts were more comfortable, and he would 
not depart from them. Still, much of the 
contempt he had felt for the young stranger 
because of his peaceful nature, his religion, or 
lack of religion, as he called it, his occupation, 
and his slender frame, was gone, and, uncom- 
fortable though it might be, a respect had 
crept into its place, and he could not oust it. 
Marianita was faithful, and this thought 
brought a wonderfully sweet exhilaration to 
him; but then the old padre was gone, and 


UN AMERICANO. 


21 


who was to marry them at Christmas-tide? 
Perhaps by that time the little home would be 
gone, too, and then there would be no vine 
and fig tree, no shelter at all for his bride. 
“Madre de Dios!” he gasped, as the possi- 
bility of this forced itself upon him. “Some- 
one must suffer if that happens. ’ ’ 

Then, as he galloped along in the clear 
moonlight, he thought of his rich harvest of 
grapes, and planned not to let another week 
slip by without converting them into money. 
And Oh, shame! there would be no wine press 
working at poor, deserted San Luis Rey now, 
and all the grapes would have to go to 
San Diego. 

At early dawn he was upon the shore of the 
beautiful little city. The ship that held their 
beloved padre was anchored inside the bar. 
The noble bay slept, and all nature except 
human nature, seemed at peace. As Juan 
stood there in the pale, opal morn, he was 
joined, minute by minute, by a group of sor- 
rowing Indians or Mexicans, who had found 
out about the priest’s departure, and had 
ridden all night, as he had, to get down to the 
shore to see him once again or to bring him 
back, and when the first rays of the rising sun 
shot across the mighty ocean, three hundred 
sorrowing, wailing people stood upon the 
shore, straining their eyes out over the dim- 


22 


UN AMERICANO. 


pling waters. Their lamentations were loud 
and heartrending. They groaned and prayed 
and many flung themselves into the sea and 
swam out to the ship. Juan was among these. 
He could never relate afterwards how he man- 
aged to climb up the ship’s side, but in the 
strength of his despair he did, and stood, or 
rather, knelt, before the priest. 

“O padre, mio, come back, come back!” he 
cried, while the water dripped from his cloth- 
ing upon the deck. “There are hundreds 
come for you. They are weeping. Dios! how 
they weep and call for you! You shall never 
be harmed. We will all guard you — every 
man of us, with our lives. Who will marry 
us and christen our babes and bury our dead 
if you go from us? O padre, come back!” 

The old priest sobbed as he walked the 
deck. His arms were folded and his brow 
furrowed. 

“Listen, Juan,” he said, with difficulty. 
“I am old. I am ill. I haven’t long to live. 
I must go. I cannot keep your homes for 
you if I stay. They will all go. You must 
try to buy your homes again from the govern- 
ment, Juan, you and your father. The 
others, the poor ones, God help them! My 
poor children ! ” 

“But, O padre, who will absolve us when 
we sin?” he asked, anxiously. 


UN AMKRICANO. 


23 


For one instant the priest had it upon his 
tongue to answer “God,” but the thought 
that this would conflict with former teaching, 
— for he had always been a stickler for the 
necessity of the priestly pronunciamento, and 
that it might be a dangerous license to Juan, 
— kept him from it. Then he said, earnestly, 
“Sin not at all, my son.” 

“Ah, but I have sinned this very night, 
father. Hear me and absolve me once again.” 

Juan then hurriedly confessed his murderous 
desire, and, lumping all his small peccadillos 
together, made as short work of it as possible. 
That he had promised the Senor still to have 
his life if his suspicions proved to be true upon 
his return did not trouble him in the least. 
The padre was going. This was his only 
chance for having his sin wiped out, and 
when the unbinding words had been pro- 
nounced, he arose, never doubting but that 
his scarlet sins had been made as white as 
wool. Repentance with Juan had ever been 
but a feeling that it would be more comfort- 
able for one’s soul in the hereafter if one con- 
fessed and was absolved. The desire to 
perfect the nature here upon this earth out of 
pure love and appreciation of godliness had 
never visited him. Indeed, he had often felt 
that it was a great misfortune that one should 
have to keep from so many charming sins in 


24 UN AMERICANO. 

order to make that dreadful hereafter bearable. 
If it were not for that, what enchanting 
diabolism would he not be guilty of! He was 
one of many millions who do not dream that 
fear of punishment is the lowest of motives 
for right doing. 

The old padre blessed him, and, giving him 
such instructions as the time afforded, bade 
him go. They both wept at parting. The 
old man stretched out his hands over the sea 
towards the shore, and blessed his people 
again and again. 



CHAPTER IV. 


Juan obtained a fresh horse in the city, 
leaving his until he should take his grapes to 
market the following week. He rode back in 
despair. There would be no wedding at 
Christmas-tide now, no matter how ready 
Marianita was. He was sick at heart and 
chilled and hungry. 

As he neared the Alvarado’s rancho he saw 
his betrothed standing in the road, shading 
her eyes and gazing steadily in his direction. 
Urging his horse, he galloped up to her, and 
alighted almost before the animal had stopped. 

“Marianita, mia,” he began, but his words 
were checked by the horror of her look. She 
waved him back, imperiously, and he saw 
her eyes were heavy with weeping. 

“What is it? What new trouble is there 
now?’’ he asked, a dark flush spreading over 
his face at her repulse, for in an instant his 
slumbering suspicions were alive again. 

“Come not near me, Juan Murietta,” said 
the girl. “No murderer shall ever touch my 
hand.” 

“Madre de Dios! What do you mean?” 

“You have shot the good Senor. It is your 
wicked jealousy that has done this. He lies 


26 


UN AMERICANO. 


near death in the house. Old Ysidro has gone 
for a physician.” She wrung her hands and 
her tears fell in torrents. 

“ It is all a mistake! ” said Juan, indignantly. 
‘ ‘ I have been to San Diego to see the padre, 
who has sailed for Mexico. I have eaten 
nothing since last night. I have ridden all 
night and all day, and you welcome me like 
this.” 

“He talks of you always, Juan. He keeps 
always saying: ‘I have no quarrel with you, 
Juan. Strike if you wish; I am unarmed!’ 
Oh, it is pitiful to hear. It was so horrible a 
deed. Old Ysidro saw you following him.” 

“I swear I am innocent!” replied Juan, his 
wrath gathering apace. “I did follow him, 
and I quarreled with him, but I did not harm 
him. He told me the padre had gone to San 
Diego, and I went home for my horse and rode 
all night. I swam out to the ship and saw 
Padre Peyri and confessed to him. I swear I 
do not know who harmed the Americano. 
When I left him, he was going toward the 
mission.” 

Marianita lifted her face, in which there was 
a gleam of hope. 

“I pray the Virgin this may be true, Juan. 
Find the man who did it!” 

“The people are mad, Marianita; they are 
wild about losing their homes. I met many 


UN AMERICANO. 


27 


of them as I came along, and they swore 
revenge. It was someone who thought him 
an agent of the government.” 

‘‘You, yourself, thought so but yesterday, 
Juan. You told me so!” 

Juan felt that he could not defend himself 
as a wholly innocent man would. A sense of 
shame for his quarrel with this unoffending 
man, and a remembrance of his murderous 
desire came to him. Someone else had only 
done what he had wished to do. 

“After I talked with him I thought so no 
more!” he answered, hotly. “I am innocent. 
You wish to believe me guilty. I am done!” 

He sprang upon his horse and stuck the 
spurs deep into the sides of the jaded animal. 
Something had to suffer for his discomfiture, 
why not the horse? It was the most conven- 
ient thing at hand for him to vent his rage 
upon. They thought him altogether bereft of 
his senses when he arrived at his father’s 
house. They were full Of the news of the 
Senor’s hurt, and began relating it to him. 
He ordered them to cease, and uttered many 
oaths between his teeth. His old father 
looked searchingly and anxiously, as if trying 
to make up his mind what to think of his 
son’s behavior. His mother wept. 

He felt like going to his own little house, 
tired as he was, and tearing it to pieces. He 


28 


UN AMERICANO. 


could almost feel himself grinding the white 
buds of the calla lilies under his heel; but, 
instead, he went into his room and locked the 
door and thought and thought and tried his 
best to see a ray of light in the future. Then 
he thought of his suffering parents and called 
them in. 

“Father, mother, I know of what you are 
thinking. Marianita suspects me of having 
shot the Senor. Perhaps you, too, think me 
capable of doing so, but I am innocent. I do 
not know who harmed him.” 

His parents embraced him, thanking all the 
saints in the calendar that he had not done 
the deed, and he was left to himself. 

Three days passed by, and nothing was 
heard from Alvarado’s ranch. Juan was rest- 
less and profoundly unhappy. On the fourth 
day, old Ysidro came with a note from 
Marianita. It read: 

“Juan, mio, come to me. The Senor is awake 
at last, and has told us all about it. Can you ever 
pardon me, dear Juan? Marianita.” 

It was a new lease of life. The listlessness 
vanished into the past in an instant, and 
before old Ysidro had spoken half a dozen 
words to his parents he was on his way to 
Alvarado’s. As he thought, Marianita was on 
the watch for him near the dense shrubbery. 

Realizing how nearly he had lost her, he 
caught her to him as though never to lose her 


UN AMERICANO. 


29 


sweet presence again. Then he noticed her 
changed aspect. “Where is the light of your 
eyes? Where is the rose of the cheek? You 
have been watching and weeping, and I? 
I have been desolate. Ah, Dios! How sweet 
to be again united ! ’ ’ 

“I did suffer, Juan, bitterly, while the poor 
Senor was raving; but when that was past and 
he awoke with a clear mind, and told us all 
about it, I could only thank heaven and weep 
for joy. He was shot by an Indian — one of 
the Mission Indians, too, Juan. Think of 
that! One of the men whom the good padre 
taught to love one another.” 

“Yes, it was a damnable deed!” said Juan, 
readily, knowing that such an answer would 
please her. 

“And to think I did you so much wrong, 
Juan, mio. Can you ever forgive me! ” 

Juan could and would forgive even that 
amount of injustice if she would promise 
never to doubt him again; and the handsome 
fellow did his pleading with so good a coun- 
terfeit of honesty, and impressed her so 
strongly with his generosity in forgiving her 
awful suspicion, that he easily obtained her 
promise of unending trustfulness for the future. 

“The physician has but just gone, Juan, 
but he says that the wound will not kill. If we 
nurse him well he may be up for our wedding.” 


30 


UN AMERICANO. 


Juan’s face fell. “There is no priest, 
Marianita. There can be no wedding without 
a priest,” he replied, sighingly. 

“Ysidro says there are some traveling down 
from Santa Barbara and San Gabriel, and I 
thought that no matter when they came 
along ’ ’ 

“Ah, now you are my angel!” cried the 
young man, catching her to him. “Now, I 
will go and get the nest ready, and no more 
trouble can come.” 

“But it will, dear Juan. Men may come 
any day to take our land and we must be pre- 
pared. When you go to San Diego again, 
come to me. I have some jewels and laces; 
they must be sold. We must get all the 
money we can together, and perhaps they will 
take it and leave us our homes. ’ ’ 

“My brave, sweet wife, you will not find 
Juan backward. All he has shall go, too.” 
Then they parted with many expressions of 
confidence and trust. 

The young man walked home with a light 
step. The world had suddenly become habit- 
able to him again. It was terrible to lose the 
padre and the home, but both could be borne. 
To lose Marianita was simply to find his soul 
a howling wilderness, a vShuddering night, a 
bottomless abyss, and it could not be borne. 


CHAPTER V. 


The days passed peaceably by for two weeks 
more. The Senor had so far recovered that he 
could sit out in the scentful garden in the 
middle of the day, while the sun was warm. 

He had taught Marianita to preserve the 
petals of the roses with delicate spices he had 
brought from France, and one day they were 
pulling a hundred roses to pieces for this 
purpose, when two strange men rode up. 
Marianita turned pale and dropped her 
flowers. “O Senor, the hour has come!” 
she said, tremblingly. 

“Have courage, child. I will talk to 
them,” he whispered, reassuringly. 

The men bowed politely and asked the way 
to Murietta’s rancho, in Spanish. 

‘T will tell you, gentlemen,” answered the 
Senor in English, so that Marianita might not 
understand what was said. “But — have you 
any objection to telling me if you have 
bought their land from the government?” 

“Not at all,” answered one of the men. 
“I have bought a tract of land that lies near 
there. Whether that rancho is included or 
not, we do not yet know. It is to be 
surveyed. ’ ’ 


32 


UN AMERICANO. 


“If it should include theirs, I beg of you, 
for God’s sake, to deal gently with them,” 
said the Senor, with emotion. “I have seen 
more broken-hearted people since I came here 
than I ever saw before in the whole course ol 
my life. The government has much to 
answer for, in thus permitting people born and 
bred on the land to be driven away. These 
Muriettas have always lived there, and I beg 
of you, if you can, make some arrangement 
to let them stay.” 

The men looked troubled. “We have paid 
for the land,” they said, though not harshly. 

“So have they!” answered the Senor, ear- 
nestly. “They paid for it and have lived on 
it and beautified it for more than two gen- 
erations.” 

The men looked more troubled still. “We 
have no desire to do anything wrong,” they 
said. “If there is wrong, it lies with the 
government. The land was put into the 
market and it was bound to be sold. Some- 
one would buy it, why should not we ? ” 

“Make some arrangement with the crushed 
people, for justice’s sake, the Senor pleaded, 
once again, with a voice which trembled in its 
earnestness. “You will not find them difficult 
to deal with. Appear friendly to them. 
Hear what they have to say, and may God 
deal with you as you deal with them.” 


UN AMERICANO, 


33 


The men again expressed their good inten- 
tions, and the young artist gave them the 
directions they had asked for, and they rode 
away. 

“Cheer up, Marianita, cheer up. The 
worst has happened and it is not as bad as I 
feared it would be,” he said, turning to the 
stricken girl. “They do not seem to be bad 
men, and I think they will make some arrange- 
ment. They seem to want to do right. 
Come, cheer up, my dear little friend. All 
will yet be arranged for you and Juan, and I 
hope for the parents, too.” 

The tears welled to her eyes. “God bless 
you for your goodness, Senor,” she said, with 
a voice full of the sweetest gratitude, then 
added: “I wish I were with Juan, he takes 
offense so quickly.” 

“No, it is better you are not with him. 
Wait patiently, Marianita; we shall be sure to 
hear from Juan tonight. But please help me 
in; I am very, very tired.” 

With a stout cane on one side, and 
Marianita’ s arm on the other, the young man 
slowly and painfully made his way into the 
house and stretched himself upon his bed. 
Marianita covered him with a bright shawl of 
her own weaving, and he seemed to fall asleep, 
that he might not distress her, but as he lay 
there he reviewed the whole situation. He 


34 UN AMERICANO. 

resolved at least to make one effort to see these 
men again and to use his best powers of per- 
suasion with them. 

That night, as he had predicted, Juan came 
over. A manliness that had never before 
clothed him sat upon him now. With an 
unconscious dignity, he related his conversa- 
tion with the men. 

‘‘They saw the little home I have built for 
you, Marianita,” he said, sorrowfully, “and 
they liked it so much, especially the olive 
trees, and the lilies, and the wide porch with 
the vines creeping over it. They thought it 
would be so pleasant for the daughter of one 
of the men to live in with her husband.” 

“What will they take for it, Juan?” asked 
the Senor, while Marianlta’s tears fell silently. 

‘ ‘One thousand dollars, Senor. They agreed 
to let me have my own home for one thousand 
dollars, and my father his for five thousand.” 

The Senor groaned. He knew these people 
could not raise this money if they sold all the 
personal property they possessed. He con- 
sidered for a brief minute, then a happy light 
flamed up in his eyes. 

“Tell them, Juan, that you will accept 
their offer for your own home, and get them 
to wait two weeks for the money.” 

“But, Senor, I cannot ” 

“Never mind, Juan; I have a plan. There 


UN AMERICANO. 


35 


is the picture! I will begin again on it to- 
morrow, and will finish it in two weeks. You 
shall take it to San Diego, to my friend, 
Senor Cervantes, who, I am sure, will be glad 
to buy it. It is fully worth one thousand 
dollars.” 

A hot flush overspread Juan’s face. Like 
a flash, the picture of an angry Mexican bran- 
dishing his dirk before this man arose before 
him, and he covered his face for shame. 
“Senor,” he said, brokenly, but the young 
man would hear no thanks. 

“Yes, yes,” he interrupted, “the Guardian 
Angel of San Luis Rey shall preserve your 
home for you. It pleases me very, very 
much — this thought. It brings me some 
happiness again, to do this.” 

Juan gave him one look as he went out, and 
the Senor saw that the great black eyes were 
dewy with emotion. A simple gesture of con- 
fidence the Senor gave him. It was all that 
was needed. 

The next day, the interrupted work of the 
painting was resumed. If the Senor suffered 
while doing it, he made no sign, but kept 
bravely at it hour after hour. Sometimes a 
deathly paleness would settle over his face, 
and it troubled ^larianita much. She would 
beg him to lay aside his brush, but he would 
not. 


36 


UN AMERICANO. 


Juan had another interview with the men, 
and they had promised to wait the two weeks 
for the money. 

Juan still worked at the little house, for the 
Senor had commanded him to, saying he had 
no doubt as to the money being forthcoming. 

On the last day that the artist worked, 
every breath he drew was an agony. The 
picture was grand. His very soul was satis- 
fied with it. Against a piece of the jutting 
wall of the old mission, that bore the date of 
its erection, 1798, in rough letters cut in the 
stone, stood a sorrowing angel, with folded 
wings and bowed head. Great masses of 
wavy black hair fell over the perfect neck and 
the simple white drapery, which was almost 
gray in the shadow that seemed to have fallen 
across the old building. The face, too, was 
shadowy, especially the eyes, but from every 
feature shone love and sorrow. The very 
pose expressed love and sorrow. It was a 
picture, once seen, never to be forgotten. 
The artist had painted it with the two feelings, 
love and sorrow, absorbing him. What mat- 
tered his wound, his pain, if by his work he 
could give these young lovers the power to 
enjoy that bliss that was not for him in this 
world? The Senor’ s creed was very simple: to 
worship God, and to do good — that was all; 
but, simple as it was, it had eliminated every 


UN AMERICANO. 


37 


selfish feeling that his humanity had been heir 
to. During the last hour, he could scarcely 
hold the brush, and he put up an earnest 
prayer for strength to finish his work. When 
he arose, at last, he could scarcely see. 

“It is done,” he said, faintly. “I give it 
to you and Juan. It shall save your home.” 

Marianita looked at him, and, uttering a 
cry, sprang toward him, but was only soon 
enough to break his fall. Her cry brought 
the others of the household. They carried 
him to his bed, but when they laid him down, 
they saw that his clothes were stained with 
blood. His partially healed wound had opened. 
He was in a death-like swoon. They used the 
simple restoratives they knew of, but he lay 
apparently lifeless when Juan joined them. 

“Oh, Juan, he has died for us?” sobbed 
Marianita, “and we allowed it.” 

But Juan did not take so somber a view of 
the case. Once again he rushed away, and 
saddled his mustang, and rode all night to 
San Diego to find a physician. He could get 
no resident phyvSician to go so far, so, after 
hours of search, he found the one who had 
attended him before, an eminent traveler, 
visiting at the house of Senor Cervantes. 
Here he stated the facts, and, to his joy, both 
gentlemen expressed themselves anxious to 
accompany him back. 


38 


UN AMERICANO. 


Refreshments were ordered for Juan, and 
while he was partaking of them, many ques- 
tions were put to him by the gentlemen that 
he could not quite see the drift of. Upon 
each fresh piece of information that he gave 
respecting the ^young man, they would look at 
each other and exclaim, “Yes, it must be he! 
He must be the one! And perhaps it is now 
too late! Oh, poor thing! poor little thing!” 

Juan tried to emulate the Senor in self- 
forgetfulness at this time, and would not wait 
to rest. He had been used to the saddle since 
he could walk, and, though he might be 
fatigued, he could bear it. So, obtaining a 
fresh horse, he set out to return with the two 
men. His anxiety increased as they neared 
the Alvarado’s rancho. He had been gone a 
long time. Death might have come in his 
absence. 

Marianita came to the door as they rode up. 

“How is it, Marianita?” he cried, “ life or 
death? ’ ’ 

“He still lives, Juan, but does not know 
us,” she said, sorrowfully. 

The physician was off his horse instantly, 
and, throwing the lines to Juan, he went in. 
All that night, the sick man was tended with 
consummate skill. The pulse steadied a little 
toward morning, but still the mind seemed a 
blank. Juan slept heavily on a lounge in the 


UN AMERICANO. 


39 


living room, but Marianita, who had slept 
during the day, while her mother was watch- 
ing, kept vigil, and waited on the doctor. 
Senor Cervantes and the physician held a long 
consultation together, and as Marianita passed 
through the room, she heard the doctor say: 

“It is our only hope. I leave it all to you, 
but you must prepare her for the worst, poor 
little thing!” 

She pondered these words, but could make 
nothing out of them. Of whom did they 
speak? She was too full of trouble about the 
sick man to be very curious about anything 
else, so the words passed from her mind. 

Senor Cervantes then asked for a bed, and 
Marianita took him to her own little room. 

“Call me early, my dear young lady,” he 
said. “Five hours’ sleep will do for me. 
I have much to do tomorrow.” So, in the 
gray dawn of the morning, Juan and Senor 
Cervantes were called and breakfasted. The 
Senor was shown the great picture, and could 
not speak in its praise enough. He was very 
thankful that he had the opportunity to buy 
it, and he was glad, also, that the money, 
which was nothing to him, should save the 
little home for the young lovers. He asked 
Juan to go back with him, to get the money 
and to pay it over to the men, who were 
staying at San Diego. 


40 


UN AMERICANO. 


It was sunset the next day, when Marianita 
and Dr. Shelburn, looking, with a fieldglass, 
down the beautiful valley, saw, approaching, 
two horses with riders. 



“They are coming! ” he exclaimed, his eyes 
glistening with admiration. “Heavens! what 
will not a woman do for love or duty? “ 

“Who is the woman, doctor?” asked 
Marianita, anxiously. 

“An angel, child, like yourself, like my 
wife, and like my mother,” exclaimed the old 
man, impulsively. “An angel. A little pale 
flower that a breath of wind could blow away, 
but she comes galloping up the valley, hour 
after hour, not knowing but her lover is 
dead ” 



UN AMKRICANO. 


41 


“It is Ivili?” exclaimed Marianita, pressing 
her hands together, and then to her forehead, 
excitedly. “Was she not drowned? “ 

But the doctor was on his way to the gate, 
and Marianita sat by the bed of the sick man, 
alone. 

The old doctor held up his arms for the frail 
girl as she rode up. 

“He lives still, dear lady, and you, I hope, 
will cure him,” he said, with a sympathetic 
voice. 

He almost carried her in, and she. fell on 
her knees beside the bed, and hid her face. 
“O God! O God! let him live!” she cried, in 
sobs of agonized entreaty. Then the soft, 
cool hand was passed over the fevered brow, 
and passionate kisses pressed upon the burn- 
ing lips. 

He was still for a moment, then again the 
wandering, broken sentences began. 

“Juan, Juan, I am ill and unarmed — yes, 
the picture — the Guardian Angel of the old 
Mission. What is that, Juan — no marriage at 
Christmas time? Oh, no, there can be no 
marriage. But the roses — Marianita, bring 
roses, quick, and spices. Throw them into 
the sea! Let’s fill the sea with roses and 
spices for Lili — there on a coral reef — lacerated 
by the coral reef! O Lili! — ” 


42 


UN AMERICANO. 


He tried to rise, but the girl clasped him in 
her arms and laid her cheek against his. 
'‘Here, here, darling,'’ she whispered. “I’m 
here with you. Wake up, wake up, your 
lyili is here. Your sweet angel brought me 
back from the sea, and I’m here with 3^ou — 
your Lili is here ’’ 

The old doctor turned away and went into 
a shadowy corner, Marianita went softly out, 
with the tears running from her face, and 
by-and-by there were four people praying: the 
young girl by the bed, the old doctor in his 
corner, and Juan and Marianita, kneeling side 
by side in the outer room. Their prayers 
were said in different words, and in different 
ways, but God Himself is the Author of all 
the different ways. 

The night, the painful, anxious night, wore 
on. When the daylight came, the door of the 
sick room opened softly, and the doctor came 
forth leading the young girl. 

“How is he?’’ asked Marianita, for Juan 
was sleeping upon the couch. 

“In a quiet, refreshing sleep,’’ answered 
the doctor, then added, smilingly, “We were 
so importunate, heaven had to yield this 
blessing. But Miss Lili has got to go to bed, 
else we shall have to be praying for her. 
Now, my dear, sleep, sleep; the old doctor 
orders it.’’ 


UN AMERICANO. 


43 


Marianita led her away, with her arm 
around her waist, and, while she helped the 
almost fainting girl to undress, she heard the 
story of her long search for her lover. 

“Some day I will tell you of the shipwreck 
and of my lying ill for weeks in a strange 
land,.” she said, gently, and all Marianita 
could say, over and over again, was: “Oh, 
I thank God you have come back. The 
Senor will be so happy! ” 

The glad, beautiful dawn of Christmas 
morning came at last. The sun rose like a 
king, and commanded every living thing to 
smile. The flowers lifted their heads and 
laughed as the morning breeze bore away 
their sweets. The bed where the sick man 
sat, propped up with pillows, was almost hid- 
den in lilies, for Juan had brought over from 
the little home where Marianita was to be 
installed on the morrow, baskets full of them. 
Tall sprays of “bridal wreath” stood up in 
the quaint jars that the Indians of the 
mission had made, and there were baskets and 
baskets of roses. The smilax and ivy seemed 
to be trying which could assert itself the 
most^ 

Lili, in a simple white dress, stood near the 
bed, and Marianita and Juan, all in red and 
purple and gold, stood near her. Old Ysidro 
had gone up and down the coast, and had at 


44 


UN AMERICANO. 


last found a priest who would go there to 
perform the double ceremony. The chapel at 
San lyuis Rey had been dismantled, so there 
was no objection made to the marriage of Juan 
and Marianita at the house. The great 
dangers they had escaped made this a very, 
very happy Christmas, in spite of the trouble 
and turmoil of the times, but, of all the 
wedding party, none seemed quite so heavenly 
happy as the young artist. 











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